


but you'll never see the end of the road

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Drabble, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Speculation, just platonic soulmates being platonic soulmates, maybe later........., mwah, of course sumn trauma luvs this is the 100, platonically? - Freeform, speculation drabble, theres a tag that says breaking the bed, this is a free world and i am a white woman i can do whatever tf i want and i will!, we know its never happening but still!, you gotta give me a little something first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke is afraid to go to sleep after regaining control of her body. (6x09 speculation)





	but you'll never see the end of the road

**Author's Note:**

> true safeandsound13 fans look away omg just got inspired to write this canon drabble out of nowhere [who am i](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZUcpVmEHuk) ?
> 
> based on this [tweet](https://twitter.com/elizatmorley/status/1144063358913716225). imagine thinking i paid enough attention to the plot this season to know if any of this is correct, couldn't be me. could **not** be me.

* * *

Clarke is no stranger to nightmares. She actually can't remember the last time she had a full night's sleep. Surging awake at odd hours, covered in a layer of sweat, hair plastered to her forehead, heart beating so loud against her ribcage she's afraid it's going to break out. The blood on her hands she can never quite wash off, accompanied by the acid smell of metal. The taste of bile in the back of her mouth that doesn't go away no matter how many times she swallows. The tight, suffocating feeling in her chest that makes the back of her eyes sting with tears. That had been a routine night's sleep to Clarke ever since the first time she came down from the sky. The first time they came down to try and survive on a planet that was both much like and anything but the one they're on this time around. A planet destined to watch them fail, to destroy them, be destroyed by them.

But that was before. Before Josephine took the very last thing that was her own, locked her up there in that mindspace and made her relive all of her worst memories, made her rewrite her best in something sick and horrible and _how much better they'd be off without her_. Now it's after, and her throat constricts with terror at the thought of having to go back there.

Which is why she can't risk it. She can't risk waking back up in that cell. Not when she just — when she just came back. Just got herself back. Him back. All of them — _back_.

The first night after Gabriel managed to rid her of Josephine, on their way back to Sanctum, she and Bellamy settled down for the night in a small cave hidden just from the main path leading through the woods. Clarke collected berries, nuts, leaves, anything that looked like what Gabriel's children had been munching on earlier, to make the limited amount of provisions in his backpack last them longer, while Bellamy built them a fire, filled her in on what had been going on during her absence. Clarke had asked him about Octavia, the brief moment he had with his sister before she decided to stay with Xavier. He asks hers about the mindspace, what she saw, what she had to endure. She takes a look at the cut on his cheekbone, helps clean it with their restriced amount of supplies.

There's so much to say, too much almost, so much they _do_ say, and still they manage to leave the majority of it untouched. There seems to be an unspoken agreement lingering between the two of them. Get back to Sanctum _first_. Save their people _first._ Figure out how to survive again _first_. A sick, twisted part of her thinks they never learn. She opens her mouth many times, but all she's been able to force out up until that point is, "Thank you."

"For what?" He'd asked, throwing a branch into the smoldering fire, making it crackle in anger. One of his knees was dragged up to his chest, elbow dangling off it. A soft look in his eyes, amusement tugging on the corner of his mouth. _It just makes sense._ It reminds her of a memory she'd been force to relive a few times over now, makes her close her eyes temporarily to push it away. Squeeze them shut hard, her jaw clenched tightly.

"For keeping me safe." Her throat had felt scratchy as she admitted it. She wanted to tease him originally, tell him to stop milking it, stop fishing for compliments from her, but it'd felt like too heavy of a moment all of a sudden. Too important, after the promises she'd made him not too long ago. To never forget again. "For saving my life. Again."

Bellamy's mouth curved up, and her heart ached. "You would do the same for me."

It hadn't been hard then — to lay down as he did, the light of the fire flickering across his skin as he closed his eyes, pretend to go to sleep. He didn't let her out of his sight, not anymore, settled down on the dirt ground right beside her, back to the entrance of the cave like he would shield her from whoever or whatever tried to come for her. Or maybe he was just afraid she would leave again, that he would wake up and she'd be gone.

It's a fear Clarke can relate to all too well. She's petrified that if she closes her eyes — she's going to wake up back in that cell and Josephine is going to be standing there, telling her she'd won again. That she opens her eyes, and this was all just a terrible, horrific dream. That she's still gone, that she'll never be back, that it's all over.

After he fell asleep — his face relaxed, safe for the small furrow in between his brows — she sat up, back pressing against the cold stone wall of the cave, knees pulled up to her chest as she wrapped her arms around them, leaned her forehead on top. It was easier to fool her body into not being tired if she was uncomfortable, on edge, in pain. Tried to trigger some kind of primal urge for survival. It's why she didn't bother trying to get warm, why she kept digging her nails into her forearm, even after she'd drawn blood, even long after it dried and she'd scratched open the fresh scabs and dug in harder. Clarke made herself name every person she'd killed directly or indirectly, and if she didn't have a name, a face would do, the face of a loved one would do. And when she ran out, she did it all over again from the back to the front, just trying to stay busy, trying to keep her eyes from sliding shut.

In the morning he'd asked her how she slept, and she handed him the leftover soup and told him, "Fine. You?" He told her about this dream he had. This dream where they got to live their lives in peace for once. No bloodshed, no impossible decisions. More than surviving.

Clarke pulled her sleeves further over her arms. Looked at him over the now dying flames, down to a soft glow. "How did it feel?"

He swallowed a big gulp of soup, raising his eyebrows, tried to hide a smile. "Boring."

On their second night, clothes still damp from an earlier rainstorm, they find an old shoddy cabin that looks close to falling apart. It should shield them from whatever rainfall is going to come next, keep them warmer than the already chilling outside air. It looks abandoned enough. The temporal anomalies — the worst fears, deepest desires — seem more real, more touchable in the dark, and Bellamy still seems scarred from his first time around, so he suggests they stay here for the night. Make the rest of the trek — half a day left maybe — back at first dawn. She agrees, only because she's too exhausted to fight.

They try and dry off as best as possible with some old cloths he finds in one of the cupboards, spreads what's left of them over a sleeping cott in the corner, warm up by the fireplace he gets up and going minutes after they've arrived. Her body still didn't feel like her own; sometimes it comes back at all at once, like a wave of nausea, rolling over all of her senses, unfathomable for only just a moment. She remembers all that Josephine could have done with her body without her knowing, without her permission, and then feels absolutely disgusting, dirty, used, like scrubbing her skin for hours and hours until the skin is red and raw.

"You feeling okay?" Bellamy asks her, gentle, and she realized she hasn't said anything almost the entire day. Every word she says costs an enormous amount of energy, energy she's trying very hard to reserve to help her not collapse on the floor. He must know something's off, can still read her well enough. She both hates and loves him for that.

She just hums in response, a halfhearted noise in the back of her throat, even if she feels so nauseous she can barely swallow, her heartbeat in a constant arrhythmia, a heaviness settled into her bones. He takes a step forward, fingers twitching at his sides, itching to touch out maybe, check up on her.

It makes her mind flash back to the moment she woke up. Clarke did, not Josephine. The way he was immediately at her side, cradling her to his chest, pulling away only to tell her to, " _Never pull this shit again, princess._ " A breathy, heavy laugh exchanged between them; full of history, shared trauma, painful memories. His cheeks stained with tears, a mirrored image of herself. Her pulse fluttering wildly, chest heaving erratically. His fingers shaking slightly as he pressed them to her cheek.

The back of her neck still throbs at the memory; the stitches fresh, the skin around it feeling tight. Clarke's head feels fuzzy, her fingers won't stop trembling. She can't listen to anything he says. She can hear it, see his lips moving, but nothing gets processed in her head, gets past the thick wall of dread overwhelming everything she is, everything she's ever done. Clarke is scared Josephine has had a lasting impact on her, damaged her brain. She wants to walk over to the table where his backpack is lodged on to get out the canteen of water, figures maybe the cool liquid will help her clear her head, forces her feet to move, but only sways on the spot.

Bellamy catches her by the wrist, other hand wrapping around her hip to steady her. She feels like an exposed nerve, like any moment she might snap in half. She wants to scream. Tells her mouth to move, but nothing happens. She stares at him, but the image blurs and she's back in that cell, and he's just a drawing again, just a figment of her imagination. Something crawls up her spine, something dark, and infinite, tries to swallow her whole, looks a lot like grief.

"You're dissociating," Bellamy says, and it sounds like it's coming from far away. Like there's cotton in her ears. Like there's cotton in her mouth. Cotton covering all of her nerve endings, numbing every thing she touches, touches her. It's only on instinct that she looks up at him, meets his gaze, holds it far longer than necessary.

"Clarke," he urges, rough, and she jumps at the sound of his voice, the sound of her own name coming out of his mouth, flinches at the touch of his warm fingers pressing against her upper arm. "When is the last time you slept?"

"I'm fine," she snaps, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as she squeezes them shut. Her head is slowly killing her, pounding and pounding, but a part of her feels happy it hurts. At least it means she is really here. That she's feeling real, physical pain. That this is her body; however broken and bruised and abused, it's hers. Her eyes flick back up to his, worry having overtaken his features completely, and she feels the urge to reinforce, maybe even more for his sake than hers, "I'm _fin_ e."

"When?" He repeats, firm, authoritative. A flash of annoyance overcomes her at first, _who he thinks he is cross-examining her,_ then defeat replaces it fast, _who she thinks she is denying him_. They've always been honest with each other, at least. Logically, she knows she's going to have to go to sleep at one point. Her body will knock itself out, if necessary. Still, the fear is paralyzing — the paranoia she did it to Josephine, took control, so maybe Josephine can do it to her too, take it away again — makes her believe she can keep pushing it away.

But not from him. "I don't know," she lies, then adds a little bit of the truth, because he knows her too well, "Long ago."

He opens his mouth, looks like he's going to say something as he searches her face. There's a tick in his jaw. "Aren't you tired?"

It's a loaded question for Clarke. She's always tired. She's been tired. She can hold on just a little longer, is what she keeps telling herself. Just a little longer. For a second there, Josephine had her convinced she should stop, and she almost had. Does he know? She wets her dry, cracked lips. "Of course I'm tired."

"Damnit, Clarke," he bites, angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose before scrubbing the same hand over his face tiredly, other hand digging into his hip. His dark gaze comes back to meet hers, insistent, clouded with a special kind of anguish she's only ever shared with him. "It's been over more than 60 hours by now, you need to sleep."

"I can't," she croaks out, shaking her head as tears press against her eyelashes. The dam finally breaks, and it's a reprieve. "I can't. If I have to go through that one more time, if I have to lose myself, lose everyone, lose you, if I have to do that one more time, I will —"

"You won't have to," he cuts her off, certain, certain in a way he's never with himself, or anyone else, just her, just this crazy amount of trust between them, in what lengths they will go through for the other, ever since the very beginning. His teeth grit together, a flash of disgust crossing his face. "Josephine is nothing more than a ghost on a chip. She's stuck now, not you."

"I wouldn't survive it," she returns, softer, her shoulders slouching over in defeat as she feels tears — of pain, of fear, of relief — slide down her cheeks, drip down her chin. Bellamy knows. She doesn't need to explain it. Her legs feel weak, all her muscles trembling in a way that makes her entire back slick from sweat. Her head feels so light, she's surprised she's even still standing.

"I know," he breathes, steady, grounding, calming. "It's okay." Before she knows it, her body slumps over, legs giving out, and he catches her, of course he does, sweeps her up at the back of her knees and carries her over to the makeshift bed covered in furs and old cloths. 

He lays her down gently, his brown eyes painted with conflict as he kneels at her side. A hand reaches out, his finger brushing away a strand of hair from her damp face, lingers on the shell of her ear, trails down the harsh line of her jaw, thumbs away the salty tears collected at the little dip beneath the bottom of her trembling lip. She can barely keep her eyes open, can barely look at him without her vision blurring, but she forces herself to push through it. Wants to hear what he has to say.

"When you wake up, I'll be right here, okay? I promise," Bellamy assures her, nodding over to the wooden chair by the table. "I'll go sit right there, keep an eye on you, make sure you're okay."

"No, Bellamy," she rasps, quickly, desperate, panicked, fingers wrapping around his hand tightly the moment he tries to move away. She feels delirious; from exhaustion, from fear, from proximity. She squeezes, her heart slamming loudly against her chest. "Can you — can you please stay?"

"Yeah," he says, recognizing the anxiety on her face, eyes immediately softening in a way so intense her breath hitches in the back of her throat and she has to remind herself to push out a shaky exhale. He wants to say more, she can tell from the twitch of the corner of his mouth, but he sighs, shaking his head lightly, settles on, "Yeah. Of course."

Clarke can see the flash of surprise covering his face when she lifts her hips, scoots over, just enough to make room for him on the small cot. She turns on her side, feels the mattress dip under his weight. She doesn't need to ask, his arm comes up to band around her waist, pulling her into his chest, warm and solid, reminding her he's right there. That this is real. Safe.

It's not just the knowledge of a human presence that tethers her to reality. It's the knowledge it's him, it's _really_ him, above anything else. It's not just someone. It makes a difference.

She closes her eyes, her hand sliding up to rest over his forearm, pull in closer. Her whole body feels like lead. Maybe after a good night's sleep, when she can think clearly, when he won't be able to write it off as sleep-deprived confusion — she'll tell him just how safe he makes her feel. But first things first.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or conspire to get that damn wedding album together im up for a little breaking and entering or some borderline prostitution what do you say?!


End file.
